


Lesson One; Unsupervised Paperballs and the Severity of Sneezes

by an_evasive_author



Series: Continued Studies of Fatherhood [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 23:05:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19451317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_evasive_author/pseuds/an_evasive_author
Summary: Fëanáro is many things; Crown prince and inventor, poet and husband. Lately, his roles include loving father. Well, that last one might need a little refining still. But how hard can caring for an infant really be, realistically?





	Lesson One; Unsupervised Paperballs and the Severity of Sneezes

Someone had told them that new parents were expected to be in over their heads. Of course, that meant that Fëanáro had to prove them wrong. Everything was a challenge and a challenge was only one more reason to prove his superiority.

Though... Sometimes it became rather tiring to defy the odds...

And yet he did, for who else would if not he? Indeed, this small elf that blew spit bubbles that was his infant son would soon be another of Fëanáro's wonders to behold. All in good time.

He imagined the feeling of triumph, basked in its radiance. Yes, this one would surpass all else he had made. Maitimo gave a surprised little thrill as he was held aloft. “He shall be mighty and strong; Fair and radiant as to rival the trees themselves; Just like me.” Fëanáro said triumphantly.

“Yes, said Nerdanel from where she stood with her back turned to them. Bowed over a drawing adorned with important notes, she tried to decipher her own handwriting with little success.

High tea had nearly arrived and perhaps her chickenscratch would make more sense after some strong black tea. “If he will only be half as humble as you,” she said and turned halfway to regard her firstborn and her husband.

“Humbleness is for those without virtues,” said Fëanáro and turned his appraising gaze back towards his tiny son. Like one of his jewels, Fëanáro leaned close to see all, the tiniest imperfection, not that he would find one, and grinned.

Perhaps it was the light shining through the window that Maitimo's elevated position had caught. Perhaps a bit of dust had found its merry way into the child's nasal cavities. Or perhaps Maitimo was simply bored and wished to lighten the mood.

Whatever the reason, Maitimo's grey eyes fluttered and his shoulders tensed before he drew them up and puffed his chest out. He heaved and huffed a tremendous breath. Then, far louder and lower in pitch than what could be expected from such a tiny frame, he sneezed mightly and snot splattered onto Fëanáro's cheek before he had even the chance to pull away.

Fëanáro's reflexes were sharp and so he closed his eyes before anything even more regrettable could happen.

A slimy string still hung from Maitimo's nose and the baby snorted and sniffled to clear what snot there was still left. Fëanáro lowered the child and sighed.

Nerdanel, rather unfazed all things considered, wandered over, wiped her son's tiny nose clean, all the while trying her very best not to laugh. She very nearly succeeded and was glad for the fact that Fëanáro had his eyes closed.

“Maitimo, don't snort it back up,” she admonished Maitimo who sniffled still and Nerdanel lightly pinched his nostrils as she pulled away the tissue and wiped away the residue.

Flummoxed, Maitimo gave her a wide eyed stare, as if he could not quite believe his mother's audacity as she removed his hard work. Then he yawned, snorted and blew a raspberry.

“Nerdanel?” Fëanáro asked, one eye still closed and snot on his check. His pride was terribly ruffled which was, admittedly, not that hard a feat. Perhaps now was a good time to implore his wife's unshakable pragmatism for Fëanáro currently could not find any in himself.

“Yes, my dear?” Nerdanel replied and fetched a clean tissue to tend to her husband. Maitimo, perhaps bored now that he was all out of projectiles to fling, gave a long-suffering sigh. Almost as if he had not been the one to coat his father's face in mucus.

Questioning his lot in life, Fëanáro avoided to take too deep a breath until Nerdanel drew the cloth across his face. He sincerely wished to spare himself the humiliation of breathing in the fabric on top of it all. “I already hate this...” He was hesitant to declare defeat and so he would not. But somehow this little thing made the earlier weeks stand out so much more. When last had he taken a long rest?

“Oh, do not fret,” Nerdanel said and kissed Maitimo's nose. The child burbled, waving his tiny fists around. “Only five decades or so and he should not sneeze at you any longer. Unintentional, at least; If I get them to learn manners. Hard to say with you as the sire.”

“I do not sneeze in other peoples faces,” Fëanáro informed, utterly indignant. Nerdanel giggled, kissed her husband and took Maitimo into her own arms where she cradled him. Maitimo meanwhile tried to fish for his mother's unbound hair and cooed even as it evaded him.

“Neither do you take your feet from the table,” Nerdanel reminded him and handed Maitimo, who could not quite decide which parent he wished to use as his carrier, back before Fëanáro could argue, “I will put the kettle on. Do you think the two of you will survive or--?” she allowed the question to hang in the air, letting implication finish what she herself was unwilling to say.

“Do not jest,” Fëanáro said and the haughtiness betrayed none of the lacking confidence that was the fate of all first time parents. “I shall manage a child.”

Nerdanel rolled her eyes and grinned as she stepped out of the room.

* * *

Sprawled on a finely woven carpet, Fëanáro found himself terribly bored already. His company was a baby; The best, most potential-filled baby, of course. But-- What could one do with a baby?

Smithing was right out; His son was too small to lift even the smallest of hammers. Grasping was not a problem and indeed Fëanáro found himself surprised at Maitimo's grip-strength. Yet his form and style were, frankly, quite terrible. Also, he would throw a fit at the noise of clanking steel and so Fëanáro found himself wondering what to do. He could hardly _inquire_ what the child wished, could he?

For the most part Maitimo seemed perfectly content with eating and sleeping, occasionally crying for he was even easier to upset than his father. Oh, and of course there was drooling. Fëanáro had never thought it possible that there could be so much liquid in such a small form. They had learned quickly to keep napkins and tissues and all manner of easily washable cloth ready to wipe and dry and clean their son and all that he coated in spittle.

What did one do with a child as long as they were this small? Stimulating conversation, which in Fëanáro's case of course meant the other party would kindly shut their mouths and let Fëanáro talk about important things.

The concept of two-sided discussion was utterly disgusting to Fëanáro who favoured the times in his fathers court to take over every part of the discussions.

But his son would at least provide a listening ear, even if Fëanáro sincerely doubted that Maitimo could grasp the lofty concepts of politics and the higher arts just yet. But really, was that any different than the imbeciles he usually educated? Of course not.

And yet Maitimo frequently found his rabbit-like attention span wane before Fëanáro had even finished with his opening argument. This too, was to be expected of those with inferior minds, but Maitimo had less quarrels about making it obvious.

Oh well, that would likely come in time. And then his simpleton of a half-brother would weep as he grasped his own ineptitude. _How_ exactly that would come to pass, Fëanáro did not know at the moment but surely _somewhere_ along the way Nolofinwe would sustain the very much deserved blow to his bloated ego.

The irony was lost on Fëanáro.

Maitimo made chittering noises, like the squirrels occasionally chasing each others outside. Fëanáro, floundering for ideas, grasped for a sheet of parchment and crumbled it into a ball. The crinkling brought Maitimo's attention to it and he stretched tiny hands out to demand for this most wondrous of artefacts.

Fëanáro rolled it into his son's direction and watched Maitimo fall forward onto his stomach, hands still outstretched. The child grunted but did not falter and instead tried to worm his way towards his prize. It was not much of any forward momentum but somehow it was enough. Aha! Once more his child defied the odds.

Fëanáro was admittedly a tad worried about Maitimo's utter refusal to crawl. He had been told that it would take time. But should it not be _his_ son who defied all expectations? Most likely; No, most certainly, even.

He had to be patient; Otherwise Nerdanel would be quite nettled. Which she always was. But he did not need to draw her ire unnecessarily.

Utterly bored by now, Fëanáro desperately looked around for distraction. He settled for his coals and parchment and began to sketch a few ideas that crowded around in his mind. His imagination was a well of immeasurable depth and he pitied all those who contented with mediocrity.

Well, not too much. Pity was something he had in very short supply.

So engrossed was Fëanáro that he did not pay attention to his mischievous son and so, when he looked up to listen for Nerdanel's footsteps drawing closer, Maitimo had nearly chewed through half of the paper ball already. He did not seem particularly uncomfortable nor about to choke, but Fëanáro reacted all the same.

With the reflexes of a viper he lunged forward, pressing his drawing against his chest as he lurched across the length separating him from his son. Paper rustled both from his now crinkled piece and the paper he dragged forcefully from Maitimo greedy mouth. The child bit down, though he had no teeth just yet, quite unwilling to have his fun taken away.

Of course Fëanáro won out.

As thanks for having been saved from severe indigestion or perhaps worse, Maedhros scrunched his face into a scowling grimace. Fëanáro snorted, flung the soggy paper away and tried to brush the coal smudges from his tunic, “Do not even think about complaining,” he threatened and pointed a finger, voice low under his breath, eyes ablaze.

It would have worked on his half-brothers, possibly. But Maitimo was both his own son with a temper already growing and not yet able to understand a warning delivered so balefully. Oh, he likely sensed the hostile tone of voice and it only served to tip an already upset Maitimo over the edge.

The child threw himself on his back, screeching and crying bloody murder as his face turned red from his incessant wails. He banged feet and hands against the soft carpet and flailed around.

His ears pressed to his skull as flat as could be, Fëanáro wondered dimly why no one did as Fëanáro told them to... He was not _that_ unreasonable, was he? No, surely not.

Of course Nerdanel chose exactly this moment to return. She saw the calamity in the room, Fëanáro's absolute lacking ability to resolve the situation and rolled her eyes.

“Do not dare to judge me!” Fëanáro called over the screams while Nerdanel put the tea set onto the table and returned to pick Maitimo up where she shushed him quiet.

Fëanáro felt quite jealous at her apparent ease at soothing the child.

* * *

With tea served, Nerdanel sat Maitimo into his high-chair and offered him a piece of scone to keep him entertained. She repeated the same with Fëanáro, for her husband could not be contained in one spot for long without some prospect to keep his interest.

Maitimo, graciously accepting his mother's efforts, enjoyed himself greatly by crumbling and spreading the pastry liberally over the table. Crumbs flew about and Nerdanel covered her cup with a slender, calloused hand to keep dough from polluting her tea.

“I see that at least the house is still standing, how wonderful,” said Nerdanel as she looked around warily.

Fëanáro felt quite offended at her obvious doubt and brushed some of the flying crumbs from his tunic. He huffed and turned his burning gaze away from his wife to study the bushes outside the window with intense concentration.

Nerdanel rolled her eyes at Fëanáro's very unsubtle fuming and kissed him. It was time to bring out the one thing that always worked. “What would I do without you, husband of mine?”

That placated him and Fëanáro drank from his tea, “Yes, well, it is an easy feat for one such as me.” He hummed to himself, deep in thought once more, and dipped his scone in clotted cream. He utterly ignored the delicate knife to spread his condiments. A shame, since he had made that knife himself.

“Mhm...” Nerdanel offered and kissed him again. Maitimo, perhaps jealous or simply done with his scone, squalled and waved his hands towards her until he was picked up.

Outside, the rosemary bloomed and filled the air with its herbal fragrance.

Inside, Maitimo tensed his shoulders and closed his eyes.


End file.
